


Can't Keep This Beating Heart at Bay

by myownspark



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Home, Larry Stylinson Is Real, M/M, Sexual Identity, Songfic, The X Factor Era, captain niall, heterosexual petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspark/pseuds/myownspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis thought that he kinda liked her, but there was something missing; he saw it in Harry's eyes.<br/>Basically "Home" in a fanfic, with an epilogue thrown in for good measure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Keep This Beating Heart at Bay

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last June before "Home" was released, just to work through my headcanon about Hannah, then shelved it. Hearing the song reminded me of it, so I dusted it off and here it is.
> 
> This is a work of real person fiction. None of this actually happened.
> 
> So many, many thanks to my friend Sam, who beta'd and britpicked this both last summer and now, with equal passion and insight both times around. Love you, honey.
> 
> Note: The story begins with a continuation of Harry and Louis’ first kiss from another fic of mine, called Go Out For Adventure, Come Home For Love.
> 
> Title from Sam Smith, "Leave Your Lover." (I like Nathan Hermida's version best.)

They’re sat cross-legged on the floor of their cluttered little bedroom, late for a video diary shoot.

Each of them still has one earbud in, and the wires drape and twist around their arms while Bruno Mars’ high tenor is rising in their ears: _the way you are … the way you are … girl you’re amazing, just the way you are_. Louis could just listen and breathe and sit, maybe forever, if it means he gets to be tangled up with Harry.  

Liam is surely on his way up, forever doing his part to keep all the lads herded, but Louis can’t be bothered to care, can’t make his body or mind move from this moment. Harry’s lips are still _this close;_ Louis has finally tasted them and there isn’t any way they’re done, because their legs have layered over each other and Harry’s got hold of his hand. Liam can piss right off.

“When did you know?” Harry’s question is so soft and slow Louis could melt against his shoulder.

“Know what?” Louis breathes back to him. Their eyes are closing again.  In this red-hot minute he might tell Harry everything. He’s feeling more bare and more reckless than he ought to. Still, the words are right under the surface, ready to jump out, words like _since I saw you. since minute one.  since you looked at me._ This is the kind of thing that has consequences. Even so, he’s got to finally say it out loud. _Let’s be more than best mates, yeah?_

There’s a long pause, and Harry’s thumb is so big, tracing over the palm of Louis’ hand.  When it comes, it’s not the question Louis is expecting.

“That you fancy … boys.”

Louis is caught up short and huffs out a chuckle. “Whoa, Curly.” The pet name comes like a reflex, and he’s ready to tease. But Harry’s eyes are earnest and still, and Louis takes a beat. They are in this hazy bubble where Truths Could Be Spoken and Blood Could Be Drawn. An opening-up part of Louis urges him to tread lightly, something he’s never been good at, but for Harry he wants to try.

“When did I know I fancy boys?” It comes out like a purr, and he leans in again, trying to ease those serious eyes. He kisses Harry’s open mouth gently, watches with glee as his eyes close.  “Why don’t,” grazing their lips, “I tell you,” a proper kiss, “when I knew,” and another, “that I fancy _you_?”

This time the kiss is like smiles pressed together.  “C’mon, tell," Harry says against Louis’ teeth, but then his head turns toward footsteps getting louder in the hall. Louis makes a move to pull back, but Harry’s warm hand holds him in close.

“Liam,” Louis says, the knock barging over their quiet.

“Let’s go, lads … they’re set and waiting.” Three more knocks.

Harry’s eyes turn back to Louis as he barks, “Be right there!”  He pulls his earbud out and he whispers insistently, “You’re going to tell me.” The song fades as Louis pulls his out too, and he scrambles to his feet on wobbly, sleep-tingly legs, holding out his hand for Harry.

All through the video diary Louis finds one excuse after another for them to touch. He bumps their knees together or strokes Harry’s hair, or brushes Harry’s arm with the back of his hand; he’s fooling no one, and it makes Harry grin wide and the other lads laugh. Louis lets himself smile too, and all the while his fond eyes say, _yes, love, I’m going to tell you everything._

_ Sixth Form _

Louis can’t properly remember a time when he _didn’t_ know he fancies boys. There wasn’t one light bulb moment, really; the idea took shape over years, mostly with a tally of tick marks in his mind where the “What I Like About Girls” column started out with a healthy score, but somewhere around year ten the “What I Like About Boys” column overcame until he called the mercy rule.  He thinks girls are “gross” and “stupid” when he’s eight, just the same as all the other boys do. But his friends start to act goofy around them when they start to smell flowery and get boobs, while he’s left to wonder what’s to fuss over. It’s his best friend’s older brother who gives him that jittery feeling, and his football coach’s son who sometimes assists on the pitch. _Everybody has hands_ , he remembers thinking on the playground, _boys’ are nicer;_ and when he’s older, certain lads in their football kits begin to look quite lovely.  He covers the walls of his room with posters of Becks and Coldplay instead of the Spice Girls or Joss Stone, and decides to go out for the play not to get girls, but to have a chance to sing with those ace lads who always get the leads in the musicals.

He takes his friend Hannah to the discos at school because she asks him, and mostly they all hang in a big group anyway. Keeping his options open is just more exciting; it feels right to him, and it tends to keep people guessing, which is just the way Louis likes it.  He fools about constantly; pranks and wind-ups are the currency he trades in. But his friends know he’s not joking, not really, when he makes those cheeky comments about who’s fit (girls _and_ boys), and he’s clearly not joking when he plays with his fringe and gets extra chatty when a certain lad from English stops to talk to him in front of his locker. Louis is witty and sharp and by turns stupidly brave and utterly unselfconscious; mostly they love him for cutting through all sorts of petty, small-minded sixth form bullshit just by showing up as himself.

xx

With Hannah underneath him Louis has the distinct and quite unfamiliar feeling of being out of his depth.

It’s May half term and someone’s thrown a party, and together the two of them have set up camp in the back garden, having blown right by buzzed smack into clumsy pissed. They’ve gone loose and giggly with no sharp edges left, all blunted into soft curves under a borrowed blanket and the night sky.

Hannah knows about Louis, of course she knows. All their friends do. Louis knows they know. He also knows Hannah adores him and school’s out for a bit and they’re drunk, so.  And one more thing he knows for sure right now, the thing that he barely dares to suspect when he’s sober, but is so true he’ll only tell himself when he’s plastered - she’s trying to change his mind.

A faraway part of him is calling through the beer haze _how did we get here wait now why what are we doing what hold on got to stop why._ Sure, he remembers coming over to her, remembers how she patted the spot next to her on the plaid blanket, complaining that her girls were going inside to play some drinking game and she wasn’t up for it. They’d chatted and drank and laughed and drank and then sang a little and drank some more, and yes, he’d swiped an abandoned quilt to put over them when she’d gotten cold, but Jesus, what in the actual hell happened, because now he’s propped over her, her black sleeveless top bunched up where his hand slides under it, skimming over the skin of her stomach and up to the band of her bra. He’s nestled between her legs, the warm vee of her crotch pressed against the top of his thigh. Their kisses are messy and lazy and sort of pointless, missing the mark more often than not, but still pleasant and drifty in a dreamlike kind of way. It’s when she puts her hand on his cheek and looks into his eyes that he can see her for a second, really _see_ her behind the buzz, and shit, this is not a good idea.

They shouldn’t.

He’s pulling away, pressing against her shoulder so he can get some distance, but she’s got her hand draped around his neck and she’s rolling her hips up to meet him. Fucking hell, wouldn’t it be so easy to just _get this done_ , and with Hannah no less, who’s pretty and funny, who can beat him at Gran Turismo because she’s so goddamned focused _,_ who always smiles at him like he’s just said the most clever thing imaginable, really, why _shouldn’t_ he want this? He _could_ be in love with her, sort of, if? If he was interested in girls. Maybe. But now she’s snaking her hands up under the front of his shirt and wrapping a leg back behind his, pressing him closer. Her nose is cold against his neck but damn, it feels good to just lay here warm with her and forget that boy from English, forget about what a prat he made of himself, and get close, so close.  His cheeks are hot with beer and nerves and blood thrumming fast, and he’s finding her movements are getting more determined, pulling him into a sweet spot that’s getting harder to resist.

“Do you, d’you want to?” she asks, and she’s gasping into his ear, his weight on her making her breath come out in puffs and she takes his earlobe between her teeth gently. _Ooh, that’s nice_.

“Han, wait, eh …  I don’t think … we should …” he’s foggy, but goddamn, why shouldn’t he just kick this can further down the road a bit, put off confronting it a little while longer? Pain, that’s why. Broken hearts. A perfectly lovely friendship, fucked-up.

But Hannah’s got her hand down between them now, her flat palm stroking over his cock through the thinnish fabric of his shorts. He’s hard, and she’s laughing that ripply, fond laugh.

“But it seems like you do, though … don’t you?”

He stills at the contact, blows out a “pppfffttt” sound through his lips and laughs again, because she’s got a fucking point. Her smile isn’t haughty or proud; right now, it just looks like hope.

 _Nooo, no, no,_ his mind says, but his body, sluggish and dense with beer, is somehow still saying _hell yes._ There’s that drunk thing he’s doing, where hands and lips are moving pompously on their own without any instruction from his mind which is four steps behind, slugging through the murk and sinking fast. It’s all warm lips and best friends with a sweet, rolling pressure on his dick and a taste of some sugary cocktail in her mouth, like Coke and cinnamon Schnapps. It’s all drawing him away from anything that looks remotely logical or respectable and all he can think as his hips roll back on hers is _it’ll be fine, fine, we’ll be fine_.

He picks up his head when he hears a conversation get loud, but the couple just walks on by, and the closest other person is Stan, way over on the other side of the garden, slow dancing with that girl from hockey. The music’s wafting out here from the open patio doors. It’s getting cold, but it’s warm under the blanket and he feels like he’s escaped for a bit … on holiday from being gay. _What the fuck?_ He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and he gives way to what’s left: _close. warm_. _for now._

She must be reading him like she does because she slurs a whisper in his ear, “Issall right, you know… s’all right.”

They’ll talk about it tomorrow; yes, he’ll make sure of it. They’re good at talking.

He has nowhere he really wants to put his hands, so he braces himself on either side of her ribcage while she unbuttons his fly and reaches in. He hisses when she wraps her small hand around him; his first impression is _cold_ and his second is _harder, tighter, faster._ He looks down at her and her face is half in shadow, but he can see the smooth curve of her collarbone jutting out from under her collar like the handlebars on his bicycle, and he ducks down to place a kiss there because he’s not sure what else he should do. She takes it as encouragement and does pick up her speed, but she doesn’t have a rhythm down and he’s backing up and she’s pushing forward, and there’s no urge to gasp or grunt, just to laugh because it seems so silly suddenly, the mechanics of it escaping them entirely.

“Oh,” he says, his tone surprised. “Um…”and he giggles softly at her serious face knotted up in concentration. And right then it becomes an experiment, an utterly objective, impersonal exercise in research and testing to see how this is going to go with a girl. He has no hypothesis on this one, but it’s going okay so far, and he’s nothing if not persistent, pushing forward when things get dicey.

“Hey Han, maybe we could, like …” and he pulls her hand from his cock as she turns her face away from him, hiding her eyes with her other hand.

“I never, I mean, I dunno know what I’m doing, how to …” she says, and he’s endeared by her shaky voice and something else, something that his legless mind defines as bravery.  

He gives her the smile she needs and she groans out a heavy, dejected sigh, and tries to chuckle her way out of it. He rolls onto her squarely, his arms sneaking around under her back, and _oh, that’s better_ , because his naked cock has found the cleft of her legs and when he grinds against the soft fabric of her shorts she takes a breath in and grips his shoulders. The next one must be even better, because she closes her eyes and her head falls to the side and he could swear her pelvis is tilted up now, and her thighs are rising around him. Yes, better.

It’s dry and rough against her clothes but she’s warm beneath him, which is okay, and the soft, stuttery groans she makes every now and again must mean he’s doing something right. She’s too small all over, though, fragile seeming, and he’s kind of afraid he’ll crush her somehow, like she’s delicate. He doesn’t know much about girls, but if he’s learned anything about them, it’s that the more attention he can turn around onto them the less they notice what’s going on with him, which the way it has to be, in fact, for this to work.

He props himself up on his elbows and from here he can see her face, and bend down to kiss her while he works at this.  The hazy buzz and his clinical disinterest makes him feel as if his dick is a kind of dull imposter of what it could be; it feels far away and sort of neutral, an appendage serving a purpose.  Her breath is hot on his neck, and he can feel the softness of her breasts pushing against him though his shirt. He lets himself picture that boy from English, his broad, flat expanse of thinly muscled chest underneath him instead, and _well now_ that makes his jaw drop and his head fall to the crook of her neck. The gasp that he couldn’t find a minute ago gusts out of his throat before he can stop it, and he’s falling into the memory of that smile, of that dark-haired boy who told him no. That boy is saying yes, now, right there in Louis’ mind’s eye, yes, _yes._

Suddenly it seems as though her panting breath in his ear has unlocked something in him, a sort of key that opens up a rhythm that he didn’t properly know existed until now, hardwired into him, that rocks them steadily until she is pulsing back against him, their movement precise and barely visible under the quilt. She shifts her arms and he does too, suddenly desperate to hang on tight to fix the rhythm in place.  He can’t hear her voice anymore, it’s crushed into his neck, which is probably good since anyone could hear them, but he could give two shits because it’s really happening, his dick is back in play, and it feels good, rolling on and on over this warm flat unyielding body that might be Hannah but he can trick himself into believing otherwise and his breath chokes in his throat, eyes squeezing shut tight because he’s coming, right now, for real, _holy  uh, uuhh, holy sh - shit_ , with a girl. Well. _Fuck_. She squeezes him sharply with her arms and her thighs and they are gone for a moment, close, but with a gulf of distance still between them.

It’s later and they’ve been quiet for a while, her astonished chuckles and sighs gone silent, his voice locked in his throat, maybe for good, when Stan walks by, hockey girl nowhere in sight. Louis looks up at him and is met with Stan’s confused glance, way too serious looking for someone who should be drunk right now. There’s an accusation in it, and Louis turns away, pretending to be so knackered he can’t keep his eyes open, but underneath he’s wide awake with conscience and regret. Holiday’s over, the release of it already a distant memory even though their thighs are still touching and she’s got a hand on his chest.

They’ll talk about it tomorrow.

_ XFactor _

It’s Monday, which means Harry’s making “proper popcorn” at half ten.  

That’s what Louis calls it, anyway; Harry made it for the first time for them ages ago, back at the bungalow, to prove to Niall it’s better made without a microwave. After that first go it was decided that in no way should anyone be subjected to the torture of eating microwave popcorn ever again, and Monday became proper popcorn night, with everyone staying up late since Tuesday morning calls aren’t until 10. Harry finishes it with salt and real melted butter that glistens on their fingers and makes their lips shiny and smooth.  Louis always offers to help but ends up just sidling up, scooting along the counter next to Harry as he shakes the pan and listens while everyone else picks the movie in the lounge room.

There are fewer of them in the house now; with each passing week the traffic in the halls gets thinner and the general volume of chaos levels down a notch. The lads have begun to reference time passing in terms of weeks since the live shows started and how many fellow performers have gone home; it’s now “week eight” and they are left with only six others. But for Louis, the passage of time is best understood in relation to Harry and how close Louis can get to him.

For the first little while “as close as possible” meant standing side by side in rehearsals, voices and breath overlapping in a way that makes Louis throw his shoulders back and open his throat. They turn to look at each other to help find the key or the rest or the intonation, but also just to look, to see, to connect. They’ve been touchy with each other always, from the jump, so it’s not unusual for them to be brushing arms or hips when they’re hanging around, whether it’s in the house or at rehearsal, or even on camera, no matter who is there to see.

It was week four when Louis first kissed Harry properly, on the mouth, and they quit their timid tip-toeing and the snogging got real in week five. Last week, week seven, was when Louis began to creep up into Harry’s tiny bunk, where they could fold together from shoulder to hip if they stayed quiet, and now they’re inseparable; proper boyfriends, boyfriends who flirt and tease each other, kiss, and whisper in the dark.

Bedrooms are freed up when contestants take their leave, and here in week eight no one thinks it strange when Harry and Louis sneak over to the one that was Paije’s at the farthest end of the hall. “As close as possible” now means sleeping in the same bed and waking up together in the morning, their clothes mixed up in their drawers and on the floor, towels and toiletries no longer belonging to one or the other.

“So, I’ve gotta question for you,” Harry says. Their hips bump sometimes when they’re stood at the counter like this, and Louis steps on Harry’s toe for good measure.

“Eight and a half when fully erect.”

Harry gives him a smirk, thwapping Louis on the arm with a dishtowel. “No, shut up, twat.  It’s about Hannah.”

Louis has been fiddling with a wooden spoon on the counter, drumming a beat on the cutting board, but now he holds it up to Harry’s mouth like a microphone. Harry puts his hand over Louis’, to hold it like they’re about to sing.

“She’s tweeting you,” he says into the round edge of the spoon.

This is batch three of popcorn, and the little pot of melted butter is about to scorch on the hob. Louis drops the spoon and grabs an oven mitt to pull it off the heat.  He sits it on an empty burner, as he’s seen Harry do.

“You’re not tweeting her back?” Harry continues. “What’s … going on there?”

Here it is. “Not much to say, really,” Louis shrugs. “You know, I told you, we talked about it, after, but, she didn’t want to … call it over and done. So. Sort of messy. Then I came here.” He looks at Harry plainly.

“But you ... you’re just friends?”

There’s movement behind them and it’s Niall, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and an empty bowl in his outstretched hand, an Oliver Twist in joggers and fluffy socks. He stands between them.

Louis shoves a hand in his pocket. “Well, kind of, yeah, but then, kind of, not? I mean, for awhile we were, then we stopped. Then we were again.” He flips his head to get his fringe out of his eyes.

“But you said she knows. About you. So.” Harry’s looking at Louis, ignoring the rising volume of popcorn that’s begun to lift the lid off the pan.

“Are you guys talking about Hannah?” Niall asks.

“Yes,” they both answer together.

“Yeah, it’s just that, we, I mean she…” Louis searches for a way to explain. “It’s like, a hookup thing. You know, like, just when we’re drunk and stuff.”

Niall’s eyebrows shift up, and he looks at the floor.

“A hookup thing.” Harry repeats. He takes the bowl from Niall, keeping his eyes square on Louis. The lid clatters on the counter as Harry juggles the hot pan, turning its contents into the bowl.

“So you what, you just,” he waves his free hand dismissively, “shag once in a while, whenever?”

Niall twists the corners of the blanket and looks at Louis, who’s regrouping.

“No, not whenever …” He shakes his head, confused and cornered.   _It’s not real, Hazza,_ which comes out, “Don’t get your knickers twisted, H,” and he pinches at Harry’s waist with a crooked smile. “We’ve never done it. Like _properly done it._ ” He forces out a chuckle, which falls flat.

Niall looks at Harry.

“What’s funny?” Harry asks down to the counter, in a tone neither Louis nor Niall have heard since week four when he had so much trouble in rehearsals.  He’s pouring the butter with a flourish, stirring roughly with the wooden spoon so the popcorn spills out onto the counter.

Niall reaches between them for the bowl. “Thanks, Harry.” As he pulls away he turns his back to Harry and looks Louis in the face.  His eyes say, “Shit, Louis. Fix It.”

xx

Later, when all the rest are tucked in upstairs and the popcorn bowl has been abandoned on the floor, they are laid out side-by side, Harry’s back against the rise of the sofa. It’s narrower than their bed upstairs but it’s just right for them to tangle, better for them to push in tight with their legs intertwined and their faces nose to nose. Their lips are chapped with kissing, the soft slide of the butter long gone. The only light is the picture on the telly, Captain Jack Sparrow and Barbossa sword fighting on mute in the blue light of the moon. Harry’s face is lit with it, and Louis can’t resist pushing back that curl that keeps flopping over his eyes.

“Your hair is ...” Louis’ voice sounds croaky from disuse, and he clears his throat.

“What.” Harry’s looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, like he’s just waking and he’s not sure where he is.

“Umm, growing. Before my eyes,” Louis murmurs, and he noses around Harry’ cheek, his forehead, gliding his lips over the surface of Harry’s skin.

“You love my hair.”

“Hmm,” Louis hums pleasantly, “Quite so.” There is something else Louis wants to say he loves but he presses it down, clearing his throat again. He leans in instead, and finds his hands tucking under the waistband of Harry’s flannel lounge pants, where his bum begins its curve. This boy, and he is just a boy, sixteen years old, has completely bewitched him, and there isn’t a thing Louis can do about it, consequences or not.

The fabric between them is soft and thin, and the outlines of their cocks are plain. They’ve been at this awhile, and Louis’ pants feel moist and sticky in a brilliant way. He looks down at their hips, gliding his fingers over the top of Harry’s waistband, making him inhale quick with the tickle. He’s not taking this any farther until Harry makes a move.

“Lou.”

“Hmm.” His hand spreads over the soft parts of Harry’s middle, cool and smooth against his palm. Harry holds it still.

“Is this a hookup thing?”

Louis is shocked still for a moment, before his eyes close and he sighs out hard.  His mouth, literally watering a moment ago, goes dry.

“No. Not for me, it isn’t.”

“How do we know that?”

Louis wonders how Harry could have gotten this so wrong. Doesn’t he see what Louis wants to be for him? No, how could he, Harry didn’t know him before, doesn’t see that this clingy, orbiting thing he’s doing is unusual, so very _new_.

“It’s not, petal. It’s not. I’m not … like that.” As soon as the words are out he’s fucked and he knows it; he _is_ like that, isn’t he though, with Hannah?

Harry’s face is thoughtful, troubled. Louis goes in to kiss the worry away, but Harry shifts, untangling their legs.  He props up on one arm for a moment, staring at the telly and rubbing his face. Skeleton pirates are leaping and sword-rattling silently over mounds of stolen treasure.

Harry’s words are faint in the dim, pointed away, to no one. “Maybe we should stop this. Like, if you don’t know.  What you want.”

Louis can only watch him go, his long arms dangling in front of him, adjusting himself as he pads away.  He calls out once, it might be “wait” or “don’t go” but it just sounds like an ugly croak stuck in his throat. Harry doesn’t stop, and that nonsense syllable just repeats in the eerie, flickering light of the room.

xx

Louis brushes his teeth without looking in the mirror before he creeps down the hall quietly, keeping his eyes to the floor when he reaches their new room.  It’s stupid, he knows, but he lets himself hope that maybe Harry's waiting inside, willing to hear him out. He flips on the light and fuck, he’s wrong; the bed yawns empty with its crumpled duvet just as they’d left it this morning. He can’t get in it alone, so he stands staring at it from the doorway. It smells like them in here, and the punch of it is sort of taking his breath away, making him think of those exercises Savan makes them do.

“It takes discipline to increase your lung capacity! You need to strengthen your diaphragm and open your throat!" Savan explains as he paces in front of them in the rehearsal room before they’ve even sung a note. "Again!"

The boys gasp in a big fast breath like they’re going to jump off the top diving board, exhale slowly all the way out, then exhale more and more until they’re empty, bent over and red-faced.  They hold there for a detestable five seconds, then finally inhale, filling their flattened lungs with air that never tasted so sweet.

The first time they’d done it they’d all sputtered and coughed, to Savan’s delight; "Yes! Perfect!" he’d crowed, “Get all that stale air out! Make those lungs strong! Again!” and they’d start over, swatting at each other and smiling in disbelief because if this is “work,” it’s smashing.

He can see it now: Liam has on his grave, studious face, like he’s training for the Olympics; Niall’s got that sort of lost look, glancing from lad to lad to make sure he’s got it right, and Zayn’s eyes are closed, cool on the outside even if he’s pedaling like mad underneath. They all find that critical point at once, where they come close to chucking it all and falling over, and Louis turns to Harry, who’s already staring back, concerned; from the depths Louis reaches out to pinch his elbow or give his hip a squeeze. _“I’m here, right with you. Hang on, just a bit longer. We’ll make it,”_ the gesture seems to say. Then they nod and sweep in their breath, standing taller with eyes glistening and cheeks pink, grinning goofily because they’ve made it back and are ready to go again.

There is something so _intimate_ about it, this pattern of synchronized breathing that they do side by side, and Louis knows there's more to it than building up their lungs. It's a bonding thing, brilliant actually, because no matter how wildly scattered and unfocused they are at the start, by the third time round they become calm and quietly alert, deeply settled in with one another. From here they kind of _become_ the harmonies rather than having to chase them; the rhythm is inside and they can sing like they are five strings of the same instrument.

_I’m here. hang on. we’ll make it._

Louis bolts from the bedroom and sprints the long hallway, pushing through the door straight to the bunk where Harry is curled facing the wall. Louis feels for his wrist in the dim and pulls, dragging his weight up and off the bed. He turns swiftly with Harry in tow, pleased that the kidnapping is quick and clean, and makes for the door before Harry can argue. He thinks he might feel Niall’s eyes on him as they stride out. He doesn't turn back though, and slows only long enough to shut the door behind them.

xx

Harry’s sat on the edge of their bed right where Louis wants him, with Louis crouched between his knees. He’d started by trying to hold Harry’s hands, but Harry had pulled them away, crossing his arms in front of him like a fence. The overhead light feels stark and unforgiving here in the middle of the night, seeming to harden their angles and amplify their voices. Louis would much rather dodge all this, just tuck them in together under the duvet and maybe never come back, but he’s got to get this sorted, and not in the dark.

“I know what I want, Harry.  I mean, you think I'm confused, or something, but I’m so _fucking far_ from confused.”

“Lovely.” Harry’s lips are puffy, and the polite word sounds muddy and thick. “So.”

“So I want you to be my boyfriend. Mine.”

Harry’s face is beautiful for a second, but turns terrifying all at once; Louis watches as the curves and pretty eyes and sweet swollen lips go so sharp they might cut him up and leave him on the floor to bleed out. “Pssshtt, you’re a knob,” Harry says, shaking his head and wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Might wanna tell Hannah that.”

Louis hates Harry’s tone, this childish, accusing bite that doesn’t suit him and is roundly letting him know excellent he is at fucking things up.

“Shit, Harry.” He hasn’t the slightest fucking idea what he’ll do if they crash and burn. Deep breath now, cards flat on the table in the light. “I told you, she’s not my girlfriend. I was, I dunno.” He pulls at his fringe. “She’s my friend, and she was …” he grapples for the word, “ _safe,_ you know? Safe for me to … try it out with, right? And she knew about me from the get, but …” he trails off, not knowing quite where to go from here, or how reconcile what he did with who he is and what he wants to be.

Harry considers. “Safe,” he says softly, testing the word. He studies Louis’ face, worrying his lips together, but then he looks away, and Louis can tell he’s trying to find a reason to stay.

“She wanted to, and I was safe for her too, see?” He’s doing his best to explain how muddled it got, how the lines got crossed before he realized it, but judging by Harry’s disappointed look, it’s not helping. “I needed to figure it out, you know, what it really meant for me, and _I know_ now. Don’t want her, Hazza. Never did. I just want you.”

Harry’s not answering, and Louis finds himself creeping closer to panic. Harry has never full-on just quit speaking to him before. His hands are creeping back inside Louis’ though, so Louis grabs them and squeezes hard, gripping his fingers together until he’s sure they hurt. He doesn’t want to crush them, but he does really, because Harry needs to know just how much this means to him and what he'll do to protect it. He can do anything, have anything if he just _works_ at it hard enough, even if that anything is a boy who has decided he’s an idiot. He’ll show him, he'll get them righted again.

He dials it all down into a whisper. “Know what, Harry? Don't tell Liam, but ... we might not win.”

Harry’s eyebrows knit and he sucks in his breath, like he’s about to say something. Nothing comes.

“And I don’t even care.” Louis’ eyes are starting to fill up too. _shit_. He chuckles before he can help it, the realization sort of shocking. _I fucking. don’t care. if we win._ He’s looking at Harry, wild bed hair and streaky face and all, and right now it’s the truth. “I don't give a shit, 'cause after? When all this is over?” Louis swings his arm out, swiping at the room. “Let’s go, like we said. Get our flat together, just you and me, full stop. I wanna do that so bad, Harry.”

There's a dreadful silence. Harry's hands feel clammy, and Louis is brickin it because this really could be it, the end of them. The visions he has of them eating fry-ups in a little kitchen and getting big-city jobs and keeping their shoes in a mixed-up pile near the door and sleeping until noon on a fold-out sofa are slipping away. _For fuck’s sake, Tommo, just tell him._

He rises up on his knees and comes in close to Harry’s ear. “I win anyway, ‘cause I … I breathe better when you’re next to me. I can breathe.” He pulls a hand free to slide it over the back of Harry’s neck as he shuts his eyes tight, willing Harry to understand. “Please say you still want to,” and now their cheeks are touching, their fringe brushing together.  Louis needs to kiss him, kiss all the doubt away and get them back where they were, best mates, boyfriends, but before he can he feels Harry's lips covering his, a little lopsided but close enough. Louis gasps into them and turns his head for a better angle but he misses, getting a lip full of chin instead, but no matter because Harry's back, blooming out from underneath the anger, tilting into a small smile with eyes that are alive again.

Louis could collapse he’s so relieved, because this means maybe he's a little bit forgiven, and he comes back at Harry so frantically that it's not so much a kiss as a smacking together of faces.  Soon they find a position that lets their lips layer and press, and it doesn’t take long for Louis to get a little lost in it, but Harry’s croaky voice is between them saying “okay” and he’s centered again, taking his first real breath since the lounge room. He gives Harry’s fingers one more squeeze before he takes his blotchy cheeks in his hands and wipes over them with his thumbs.

"Okay, we’ll go?" Louis asks.

Harry's laughing at him a little. "Tiny flat with a garden?"

"Jesus, Harry," he shakes his head and kisses him, "Studio, duplex, bloody townhouse. Anywhere. _Everywhere_.” He’ll pitch an A-frame tent in the middle of St. James’s Park if that’s what Harry wants him to do.

The kiss gets more purposeful, and Louis has to hum; Harry tastes like boy and tears, and Louis can feel the down of his sparse whiskers against his cheek. He flicks his tongue out to catch the soft underside of Harry’s lip, and the ripples kick through him, stirring him awake and making him sway. Harry must be feeling them too because he’s actually sighing against Louis’ shoulder, wrapping his arms around his back just like they do.  Then Harry’s voice is warm against his neck saying, “You’re safe _with me_ , you know. Try it out with me, yeah?” and holy _shit_ , Harry’s pulling at him from under his arms, lifting him up and over onto the bed with him so Louis is on top, their chests flush and hips stacked. Harry's legs fall apart a bit, making way for Louis' thighs, and just like that he finds the place where he's meant to be.

There are so many pieces of Harry Louis wants to put his lips on he can’t decide where to go first. Harry beats him to it, planting a kiss on Louis' neck, raking his fingers up Louis' back as he yanks his tee shirt over his head. Louis can only stare dumbly as Harry whips it over the side to land in a pile somewhere, _is this really happening Hazza? yes? this is really? let's,_ and he must be under some sort of spell, because what he ends up asking is a dazed “What .. what do you wanna ...?”

Harry answers by scooting himself upright to tug off his own shirt. He pulls Louis down by the back of his neck, the kiss no longer an end in itself but a bridge to something bigger. Harry’s lips are pillowy but there are teeth too, and a nip on Louis’ bottom lip sends a jolt to his dick and makes his arms shake. He lays his chest down against him, because he can't wait one second more. They are skin to skin, _my Hazza, finally,_ their stomachs warm and hearts drumming against each other. It's Harry's moan more than anything that drives Louis's hips; it's a notch higher than his speaking voice and it's like nothing Louis has ever heard. He catches it in his mouth as they thrust at their loose flannel lounge bottoms, dicks aching to find a way to fit together.

Turns out what works best is Louis rising a bit, Harry squeezing one of Louis’ legs between his thighs, while Louis lifts the other leg to the outside; with their legs scissored like this each pulse of their hips is amplified, and the grinding is strikingly efficient. They stay connected at their lips too, holding together as they gasp and groan through it. They're finding their breath together again, only this time they’re not working; it's no rehearsal and the other lads are nowhere near. It’s just the two of them, trying and reaching and holding on.

Harry turns him, actually takes him by the hips and rolls them over to their sides, Louis’ knee still hooked over Harry’s hip. Being on top is wicked, but settling in side-to-side is brilliant because he doesn’t have to hold himself up anymore, and they can stretch out and share the pillow. Their kiss breaks so they can watch themselves reach down, their four hands knocking together and tangling in their elastic waistbands, pushing the soft fabric aside to free their swollen cocks.  Louis can’t help the little moan when he sees Harry’s slap up against his stomach, and hides the tremble in his hands by stroking the hot length of it. His movements are short and choppy, jerking awkwardly with nerves and exhaustion, while his own dick is thrusting into Harry’s hand. It's dry and stuttery and completely without rhythm but it's everything he could want, truly, _closer, closer, as close as possible,_ especially because Harry's other hand is sliding around to his bum, pulling him in so their hands and dicks crowd together. The bed creaks as they move in stops and starts. He looks to Harry for some feedback and reads his serious brows and slack jaw as good signs, so he keeps it up, trying to steady the pace while keeping his own hips from bucking uncontrollably. Harry checks in with him too, and they share a quick grin as their eyes meet and slide away.  

They’re in a massive hurry, panting and rushing like mad; the kissing is a slippery skid of tongues and lips that gets impatient and edgy. Three minutes in and _god, fucking god GOD_ it feels so good Louis thinks he might be drooling. He doesn’t know where to look anymore, every sight threatening to level him up and over the edge. His cock has begun to leak, making Harry’s strokes long and silky, and when he feels the first warm flip under his lungs he pulls Harry’s hand away; some gut impulse in Louis rears up that says Harry needs to come first. He slows down his stroking to one last purposeful squeeze, and he moves his thumb over the shiny gloss of Harry’s head. There is that moan again, urgent in his ear, and it makes him want a taste.

The shift is quick and sort of daring, turning the tender curves of Harry’s face into shocked O’s when Louis starts with a lick and a kiss to the tip.  He’s salty, like sweat and sleep, and Louis takes him into his mouth, trying to keep his teeth out of the way. Their legs tangle again, curving around each other tight, and Harry’s coaxing hand is messing up his hair. Another few strokes in and out and Harry’s cock is slippery enough to pump smoothly with his hand, an even beat he falls into breathlessly.

"That okay?" Louis asks.

Harry's cheeks are rosy and he looks worried, but he nods quickly. "Yeah." That look is key, and Louis dips down to drag his lips along Harry's cock again. He hasn't any idea what to do; the porn he's watched seems flimsy and fake compared to this solid, gorgeous piece of Harry in his hand, so he makes it up, gulping and kissing and pumping in a mess of spit and speed that makes Harry's thighs tremble.

Louis looks up again because Harry is mumbling something that might be “baby” and god he has to see this, this boy who told him his voice was a flute and it was going to take them far, this boy who wants to hold hands, who thinks he needs to keep Louis safe is about to, oh, _fuck yes beautiful the most beautiful yes_ Harry’s eyes go unfocused before his jaw drops and he throws his head forward, curving in on himself with shuddering shoulders. The first spurt pulls a long grunt out of him and covers Louis’ hand. Harry's hips stammer and push, and Louis wants to kiss that pretty grimace that's now turning into the pillow and saying, "God, Lou, oh god, Lou."

He slides up to meet him, and when their lips touch again there’s an impact that hits Louis square and there’s no going back because Harry’s stomach is wet and his chest has flushed a bright snowball-fight pink. Harry’s hand wraps around him again, _huh, oh fuck Harry it’s really it’s so so close,_ and Louis can’t look at his eyes because they are seeing too much even though they’re hooded and spent. A blur of dark curls and a loose kiss makes him come, hips hitching and lungs bursting _closer, closest_ with a hand clamping down around Harry's bum and his head tucked into his neck. Now they're both wet and it's epic and they smell like something new, love and spit and warm skin, and he’ll wear this because it’s theirs now.

He might be breathing, or not, he's so tired; all he can think is that they made it, he fixed it and they landed it clean. He kisses and kisses over Harry's face until he can't make his lips move anymore, ever, even to say words or laugh or sing. He just made Harry come, Harry who he loves, his boyfriend who stayed. Now Harry's pulling the covers up over them and searching for his hand. Louis is thirsty and shaky and sticky damp, but getting up is unthinkable. When he gets his legs back he'll turn off the light and get them a big glass of water, but for now he just needs to breathe a minute and close his eyes.

He drifts off for a second and has a perplexing snap of a dream about Niall driving on the wrong side of the road. Louis is in the passenger seat trying to read a map with no street names, only music notes, when Niall pokes him and asks him a question. It wakes him, and he nudges Harry's shoulder.

“Hey … did you call me baby?”

Harry’s voice is a gorgeous rumble. “I … think I might have. Not sure. Was sort of overwhelmed at the time."

Louis laughs with the very last of his energy. “You did. You called me baby.” He gives Harry a pinch, but Harry’s smile is too tired to play. Louis takes his cheek in his hand, and their eyes find each other, finally reading the truth as it stands, and it makes Louis blissfully sleepy because now “as close as possible” means they are together, coupled, best friends who kiss and hold and make plans and tell each other the truth in the light.

_ Epilogue. Cheshire. _

At half eight on a Thursday Louis is sitting on Bea’s bed, arranging her furry friends the way she likes them: Froggy first, up next to her head by the wall, then the purple mouse with no whiskers left and Nanook the bean-bag Husky with a hole in its ear. Down at the end is Joshie, the pink elephant who’s been with her since birth and is clearly overdue for a proper washing.  

“Bea, it’s too wet here for wildfires. It literally rains _all the time_. Nothing can even catch on fire.”

She is not to be appeased, not just yet. “But it rains in Australia too, and they have wildfires _constantly_! I mean, what if it got dry here, like, _suddenly_ , and there _was_ one? _Then_ what would happen?” Her forehead wrinkles with worry.

Louis makes a mental note not to let Bea watch “Our Wild Weather!” just before bed ever again, even if it is on that “educational” channel she’s recently become obsessed with.

“Well, I suppose we could go to Niall’s. Ireland would be far away from the fire. The wildfire that will never happen here. Ever.” He gives her a wink.  “Here, give us your headband, love.”

Bea has just turned eight, and she has decided the pink flower headband makes her look glamorous. Louis couldn’t agree more, but last time she slept in it the flowers flattened and Bea woke up headachy. She hands it over with a funny look, her dark eyebrows scrunched up and thin lips pursing. This isn’t about scary natural disasters on television, something’s on her mind; she’s been distracted and short since she got home from school, and he’s glad they’re finally closing the chapter on this day. He watches her rub her eye with a fisted hand and tilt her head at him with a sigh.

“You miss Papa?” he asks her, setting the headband on the night-table among a cluttered array of pencils, plastic rings, and flavored lip balms. Harry’s been gone only two days, and is set to come back late tonight, but this quiet unwinding time before sleep is when Bea misses him most.

“Yes, I _do_ ,” she says dramatically. “Is he gonna come kiss me g’night when he gets home?” She’s scooting down in her unicorn pyjamas, pulling the covers right up under her chin.

“He absolutely will, Bea, but it’ll be late so no chatting, you have school tomorrow, ‘member?”

“D’you think he’ll bring me some more lemon soap?”

“Dunno what he got you this time. He’ll do up your egg in the morning and you’ll see... is your alarm set?” He picks up her mini-tablet to make sure.

When he turns back to her he can only see her wide blue eyes because she’s hidden the rest of her face under her fuzzy owl blanket.  He wrote a song about those eyes once, about her way of looking at him, how from the day she was born she’s made him want to be the best man her eyes have ever seen. The song was a hit for Liam on the adult contemporary chart, and now it’s become a standard at weddings. Someday they’ll tell her, but for now he and the boys are the only ones who know that all those couples singing along are actually singing about Louis and Bea.

“Daddy?” her muffled voice has a tentative note.

“Hmm?”

She’s silent for a time, but fidgety, and he gives the blanket a pinch where her shoulder is.

“What’s … s…e…x?” she finally says, giggly and a little breathless with nerves. She pulls the owl blanket over her face so her brown hair spilling over the pillow is all that’s left of her.

The question is so direct that the blunt edge of it throws him and he gives in to his first instinct, which is to stall.

“S-e-x, eh?” he says, trying to keep his voice light, “Where did you hear about s-e-x?” He swallows the sudden tickle in his throat as he juggles thoughts under the surface. _WHAT this is year three what movies did she say they watched at Gracie’s sleepover didn’t they put the childlock on her tablet she must have seen that racy music video or maybe a soap opera clip call Gemma or Lottie wait ‘til Harry hears this._ They thought they’d have another year, maybe even two before this conversation reared its head. He is kind of glad for the blanket between them; it gives him a second to scramble without her seeing, but he rethinks it; _head-on, Tommo._ He pokes a finger underneath the blanket and peels it back.

She’s flushed, but her voice turns clear and sing-songy. “Alex said he was going to have s-e-x with Gracie, but she said no because she likes Logan better. Logan shares his Swizzles with her every day, even though he’s not supposed to bring sweeties. And anyway, Alex is a big huge rudepants.”

He keeps from smirking with a bite to his lip.

“Ah, got it. Was this just today?” He asks, thinking about her mood. Poor kid, she’s been worried about this all afternoon.

“Yes, first playtime. He was gonna do it to her on the playground, probably,” she says matter-of-factly, her eyes earnest and unblinking.

He needs to keep it together, but he feels his face getting hot. They’d long ago agreed there would be no lying to Bea, no hiding things from her. _When she’s ready to know, she’ll ask_ , is what they’d said. But the thing is, Louis always thought for some reason she’d ask Harry. _The book,_ _where’s that bloody book Harry found for her? And why isn’t he here for this, anyway?_ He takes a breath. _Bloody hell, man, push on for fuck’s sake. This is what you signed on for_.

“Bea … nobody’s going to be having sex with anybody on the playground, because … sex has to do with privates. And remember what we said about privates?”

She nods with an eye-roll. She’s got a grip on the hem of her blanket, and her other arm around Froggy, hugging him tight to her neck.

“We said privates are private, yeah?”

“Yes? … But,” she begins. “Alex said …” Her eyes turn away from him to study the blue bandana around Froggy’s neck.

“What, love?” _Don’t lose this, keep her with you, this is one that she’ll remember. Don’t fuck this up._

“Alex said he was going to kiss her right on her mouth and squeeze her extra hard so she would have a baby. So s-e-x is like a hug, then?”

His heart could break for her curiosity and the simple upturn of her freckled nose, her innocence open so completely to the world.  He hates thinking of how much there is out there that she doesn’t understand yet, and for just how much of it neither of them will be able to explain to her. He despises that there is so much that she’ll have to learn on her own, learn from being hurt and being brave.

“Sex is sort of like a hug, love. But it’s much more than that.” He looks down at the pink elephant in his hands and studies its fat feet, thinking of Harry, Harry’s hands with their sure and strong fingers that got him to quit keeping score.

“Oh right, it’s hug with privates, then?” she offers, and her face brightens.

 _A hug with privates. Oh, Bea._ “Well, yeah, that’s sort of … well, that’s a good way of putting it. But … only grown-up people have sex, Bea. Grown-up people who …” his eyes meet hers. “…who know each other really well, who are best friends, right? And who …” _Want to be a family? No… want to show how much they love each other? No … ugh._  He searches over the owl blanket as if he’ll find the answer there, and he does.  “Who want to be as close as two people can be.  Really close, so there’s no space between them.”

“No space _at all_?” The concept is clearly horrifying;  Bea’s face crunches in on itself and he can tell she’s thinking of Ethan, who she says has bad breath, or maybe James, who drools because of his braces, or Maisie, who has dirty fingernails and likes to eat paper.

“No space at all, that’s right. Someday, when you’re older, you might feel that way about someone. Or not.”

“I’ll _never_ do that, Daddy. And anyway I don’t want to have any babies. Gracie said it hurts.”

_Yes, love. It hurts. Even if you’re not the one doing the pushing, even long after the pushing is over. Even when the baby isn’t a baby anymore._

“Having a baby does hurt some, Bea, that’s what I hear. But Aunt Gem said it was the very best day of her whole life, remember? And she’s had a long life. ‘Cause she’s _old_.”

Bea shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Well, good thing, you have a long while to decide.”

Bea yawns wide, showing a few holes where teeth are missing, and he can smell her bubblegum-toothpaste breath. He gives her a kiss on her downy hairline; he clears his throat and blinks the sting back in his eyes before he says, “Papa’s got a book for you, to explain all about the sex stuff. We’ll all look at it together tomorrow after school, right?”

“All right.” Her eyes are closing as she tucks Froggy under her chin.

“Sweet dreams, love.”

“Sing, Daddy.”

He switches off the light. Harry is usually the one who sings, but he’ll take this and run with it, for as long as she wants him to. “Which one?”

“The amazing song.”

“Close your eyes though, ‘kay?”   

He’s not surprised she picked it; some days it’s the new one from the latest Disney movie, often it’s one of Liam’s she wants to hear, but she seems to particularly like the amazing song when she’s had one of those miserable days made up of trials and tears and tiny injustices.  Harry had loved the song at XFactor; the whole album was a staple on Louis’ IPod back then, and they’d even covered a few songs on their first tour.  He slows down the tempo to more like a waltz, the way Harry does, and she sings along for the first few lines. Soon she’s drifting off, and Louis’ voice is a soft bell in the darkness.

“When I see your face, there’s not a thing that I would change, ‘cause girl you’re amazing, just the way you are. And when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for awhile. ‘Cause girl you’re amazing, just the way you are. The way you are… the way you are … girl you’re amazing … just the way you are.”

  



End file.
